


Perfect

by recoveringrabbit



Series: all great words [8]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Perthshire Cottage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 13:51:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15268839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recoveringrabbit/pseuds/recoveringrabbit
Summary: In which FitzSimmons prepare for a holiday do.[a very very short drabble]





	Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> You may have read this as part of my drabble collection; I'm just moving it on its own for my personal organisation purposes. Feel free to ignore.

She steps outside into the English winter night and takes a long, deep breath. Above, the sky is clear and bright, reflecting off the day-old snowdrifts around the house. Fitz had promised to shovel those away before the party but it’s just as well – they look pretty. As she makes her way down the path towards the old stables that now serve as their lab, Wellies slipping on hidden patches of ice, she turns to survey the old house. With the smoke rising from the chimney and every window lit up, it looks like a Christmas card. Perfect. Then she realises how cold she is and scurries into the lab, not even stopping to check on her specimens as she grabs the chemicals and beakers she needs. In the dark stone room, she can see her breath. Curse Fitz and his Scottish frugality! She’ll have to mix this up in the kitchen, which she doesn’t like doing. It’s too easy to get chemical stains on their nice granite counters. Anyway, how are they supposed to teach Archie and Georgie proper lab technique if they never use it?

When she re-enters the kitchen, arms full, her new glasses immediately fog up. “Bother!” she says, blindly feeling her way to the counter.

Her husband, perched on one of the high stools at the other side of the counter, looks up from the bit of metal he’s attempting to shape into a cup. She doesn’t have to see it to know there’s a glimmer in his still-perfect eyes. “Still getting used to them?”

She sets her armful down on the counter and pulls off her glasses to rub at the lenses. “At least I’m not fighting off grey hairs.”

“You’ll get there soon enough, my girl.” Placing the cup gingerly into the metal stand in front of him, he frowns when it doesn’t fit and pulls it out again. “Every year we do this,” he says. “Why do we never save them?”

She dumps calcium acetate into a glass bowl and pours ethanol into a beaker. “Because every year you’re going to get an electric one.”

“Or you’re going to remember the proper incendiary.”

“I told you we could have had Harry bring one when he comes; he goes right by the camping shop.”

“Nah.” He glances up at her and smiles. “We’ve been giving this do how long?”

“Since Archie was four, so—”

“—six years? I think it’s a tradition now.” Holding up the cup on a flat palm, he eyes it critically. “Pass the blowtorch, please?”

Without pausing her pour-and-stir process, she reaches into what Georgie calls “Mum and Da’s Science Stash” and pulls out the blowtorch, sliding it across the countertop and following it with a pair of gloves. He rolls his eyes but puts them on obediently before firing it up. “Honestly, the flame—”

“It’s the principle of the thing—”

“—is so far away from my hands that—”

“—you know I had to clear three boxes of matches from Georgie’s bureau—”

“—the likelihood of it actually _hurting—_ ”

“—people are going to think we’re abusing her—”

“Even though we’re actually giving her skills she’ll use in real life.”

“Well, _I_ know that, and _you_ know that, but primary school teachers are not always so understanding.” Beaker empty, she holds up the bowl for his approval. “Look about right?”

“Perfect.” Carefully, he drops the still hot cup into place. It fits exactly. “As is this. Bring it over.”

She comes around the counter, grabbing a funnel on the way. He holds it for her as she spoons the jelly-like substance through it into the waiting can below. “It always looks like a nasty cold,” he says as they wait for it to glob out, his arm around her shoulders.

“That’s disgusting, Fitz.”

She takes the funnel from him and drops it in the bowl as he, still wearing gloves, lights up the blowtorch with one hand and touches it to her mixture. The flame leaps from one to the other, the jelly burning merrily.  “Well, that’s done,” she says, watching the fire dance. “We can get the fondue on now.”

He makes no move to let go so she can get the pot of cheese. “I put it on the stove when you were in the lab. Everything is ready.”

“Oh, well then,” she says, setting the bowl on the counter and letting herself relax. “Let the FitzSimmons Christmas Festivities begin when they will.”

He presses a kiss to the side of her head and they watch their homemade Sterno burn. And it is perfect.


End file.
